


Deep, Dark Abyss

by Jenwryn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Challenge Response, Darkfic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-04
Updated: 2007-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>She wakes with her eyes dry like a dirt road, and broken lips.</em>  Darkfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep, Dark Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a [Darkfic Challenge](http://www.mcweir.com/archive/challenges.php?chalid=29) over at the [McWeir Archives](http://www.mcweir.com/archive/index.php).

She stands in the cell. Not a cell. More like a cage. Why is it so light? Shouldn't be light. There have been Wraith in this cage. Should be dark. She's in this cage. Should be black as ink. Should be small and dank and reeking of mould. Should be vile, foul, satanic. It's too bright.

She flexes her hands at her sides, cracking her knuckles, bending her fingers like a panther unsheathing its claws. She walks the length of the cell. Walks back again. Moves close to the bars with their force-field. Not for the first time, she stretches her hand into the blue, watches passively as the energy surges into her flesh, registers somewhere inside her body that the shock being generated has brought water to her eyes, eyes circled with shadows purple as bruises. She sees vaguely that the marine on guard is watching her wide-eyed, transfixed with horror at what she's doing. He says something, but it's all just so much noise to her ears. She keeps her hand there until her teeth bite down on her tongue and her knees give way beneath her, fingers slipping free as she crumples onto the cold, hard floor.

Her body rocks forwards, forehead cracking against the ground.

None of it means anything.

She'd do anything to feel any of it.

But she's empty.

There's nothing there.

* * *

She wakes with her eyes dry like a dirt road, and broken lips. She can taste blood on her tongue where her teeth had clenched down; salty, warm. Perhaps night has fallen. Here in the clean white light of the cage she cannot tell. There is no time. Time does not exist. She has lost all track of the world beyond. Everything but the light and the blue and the bars has vanished out of reality. She thinks she has slept a few times. They have brought food but she refuses to eat it. She stalks the cage like the Wraith before her did, pupils darting feverishly in all directions, the guards as they change shifts staring at her like an animal. Like the animal she is. She remembers Sheppard's face when he brought her here, his eyes viewing her with something like disappointment, something like devastation, something like fear. He too had watched her like an animal; an animal to be captured, chained, sedated, caged.

They have caged her.

They tried sedation but it had not helped. Had just slowed her down, reduced her to sitting before the bars and banging her head with a dull thudding rhythm against the metal until the fine, pale skin of her forehead broke open and dark blood dripped out.

She likes blood.

Blood is warm and wet and alive. Blood feels.

* * *

Somewhere hidden beneath her flesh, crouched in a corner of her stomach perhaps, cowering and crying, Elizabeth remains. Sometimes she can sense Elizabeth. Elizabeth is repulsed by her. Elizabeth hates her.

She hates Elizabeth.

And so she stalks the cage and bares her teeth at the guards and holds her hands in the blue until the weak flesh collapses jerking, trying to prove to herself that she is alive. She thinks that perhaps she isn't. She thinks that perhaps it's all an illusion. She thinks that perhaps she's dead. The scent of death is so strong. It rises up and suffocates her if she stands still, catches her by the throat if she lets herself pause, rises up behind her eyelids if she lets them close.

The sticky, sweet perfume of death. And the feel of it. The feel of the cold, unforgiving steel gripped in her fingers, the feel of how the flesh had resisted and then given way beneath her twisting thrust, the warmth of his blood - so salty, so sweet - on her fingers, on her arms, on her lips, as the blade sank deep.

The sight of his eyes locked on hers. Shock. Fear. Incredulity. Terror. Pain.

Death.

The realisation, the realisation of the cringing, weeping Elizabeth buried deep inside, locked in a corner of her stomach, when she understood what the flesh of her hands had done. The realisation that those hands which had once held him so tenderly had been the hands that had betrayed him.

The hands that had killed him.

The hands that had cut off the life of Rodney McKay.

That Elizabeth drowns in silent tears.

But all the while, her body paces the cage, hands curled out and teeth bared, and the guard stares on in silent horror at the woman who once was his leader.


End file.
